Fighter
by Fiery Wordess
Summary: She will fight. They were wrong. No one can be trusted.
1. Sorrowless Farewell

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**_"May it be when darkness falls_**

**_Your heart will be true_**

**_You walk a lonely road_**

**_Oh! How far you are from home…."_**

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**Fighter**: Lord of the Rings

They told me I couldn't fight.  I'm a child, they said, and I'm a girl, they added.  Two pathetic reasons why I shouldn't be allowed to defend myself or others.  No matter how strong or determined I was, they wouldn't teach me swordplay, or mace-swinging or even the Dwarves' axe-wielding devices.  Nay, I was a woman.  Not even a woman yet, but a twelve-year-old girl.  At least, I was twelve the first time that I had evidence that _they were wrong._

They had been wrong.  So wrong that I would never be the same.  Never trust in men. 

Only myself. 

My father was a traveling salesman and my mother helped him in his work. 

"Keep up, Selïsyan."  My mother had called back to me. 

I was moping that day, holding a grudge on my three years older brother, Seroe, for refusing to come with us this time so he could learn swordplay.  Maybe I wasn't so angry that he wouldn't come, but it was more that I couldn't go to the warrior training as well.

"I'm coming," I muttered loathingly.  Had I been a seer, I probably would have shed kinder words upon my parents.  Ahead of me, on his gray mare, Father jingled and jangled with his goods for trade.  My mother slowed down to have a word with me about my poor behavior.

"You are almost a young lady and such actions are not tolerable!  You are an ambassador for Gondor and you must keep a chipper face."  I can still see the disappointed look in her dark blue eyes.  Even under the warm sun she sat straight as a rail and managed to look as though she could be a queen's lady.  I slouched like a man. 

"A pox on Gondor," I spat furiously.  "A pox on you and a pox on Father."

Mother slapped me across the face.  "You don't speak until the words are apologetic."

Initially I wanted to cry, hurt that my mother was treating my so.  But I was so furious that I kicked my horse and raced ahead.  My parents didn't chase after me.  They knew I'd be back soon and furthermore, I knew my way.  We had made the trip a thousand times.  My soul cried with the pain of injustice and jealousy.  Why did Seroe have rights more than I?  Could I not love a country despite a monthly bleeding?        

Jezebel raced ahead with me upon her back, glad to be running, ever the limber mare.  We passed through the trees and my long braided hair flew behind my head.  I fancied it would be last thing my parents would see of me as I ran away.  In my mind, I would go off on some great adventure and years later all of Gondor would apologize to me on bended knee, realizing that I alone was the greatest warrior of all time.  I envisioned myself brandishing a glorious and beautiful sword that was sharper than the sword used by Isildur when the dark lord Sauron was defeated.        

It was Jezebel that pulled me out of my reverie and into a bizarre parallel consciousness.  She had slowed abruptly and pulled anxiously at her reins, as though hinting to me that we should take another path. 

"What is it, girl?"

She naturally had no words, not that I expected them.  I clicked my tongue at her and kept her on the path, my fury fading.  Still, I wasn't about to apologize to my undeserving parents.  Jezebel froze suddenly in her tracks, snorted and turned violently to the right, running into the trees. 

"Whoa!"  I shouted at her.  Bouncing high out of my saddle, I tried to stop her to no avail.  I never pulled hard on her reins, but now I had no choice.  I had to try something, _anything,_ to stop her wild galloping.  My chest was walloped right then by a tree branch and I was unseated and thrown back to the forest floor.  Winded, I felt certain that my body had broken.  Momentarily stunned, I lay there and stared miserably through the tree branches.  My life was horrible.  A pox on the gods for giving it to me.  I started to cry tears of fury.  I hated everything.  I wished that I would die.  Thinking these thoughts of self-pity, I lay there for awhile before again being snapped into a hideous reality.    

_Shnrff.  Grunt._

I frowned, wiping my face of its salty damp on the backs of my arms.  I heard the heavy footsteps of passing creatures.  Terrified, I jerked up to my hands and knees and crawled to the shelter of a hollowed tree.  I pulled my brown hood over my head and peered nervously around.  My breath caught in my throat as I saw six full-grown orcs, tall and terrible, running through the woods, clumpy hair waving about their sinewy backs.  I swallowed hard.

"The merchant comes this way?  You are certain?"  I heard one growl.

"Shush.  I know."  Another responded.  The six stopped by the side of the road up ahead.  I couldn't hear them any longer, and assumed they, in turn, could not hear me.  I went around my tree and hid in a presumably safer bush.

My heart was racing somewhere near my throat for what seemed like hours.  I hoped that my parents would come looking for me.  Suddenly, I wanted their company more than I had ever deemed possible. 

There was a high-pitched shriek.  I jerked out of my bush.  I tried to call out to someone for help, but my voice seemed to have faded into nothingness.  Even my legs felt wont to buckle.  It was the final shriek and the maniacal laughter that sent me running recklessly back to the road.  When I arrived, it was too late for me to do anything of use. 

I did collapse then.  I remember exactly what it felt like, the rocks jabbing fiercely at my knees.  That pain was nothing, nothing next to the wretched feeling in my heart.  I vomited all over the ground and cried all the while.  That scene will never fade from my eyes, the blood and gore of my beloved parents all over the undeserving ground.  There was nothing left for me to weep into.  I would never again release my tears into my mother's bosom; never again feel my father's strong embrace around my shoulders.  I don't remember, however, what exactly led me from crying in my own vomit and my parents' blood to becoming a killer.

There was a sword left on the ground and an axe with a splintered handle.  I saw those and I think I picked them up.  I must have.  They may have flown to my hands, so vague is that part.  I remember running for a long time.  I remember seeing the orcs feasting on our dead horses.  I remember their screams, their shock and most of all, their deaths.  My glorious revenge.  They hadn't expected a twelve-year-old girl to kill them with axe and sword.  It was a whirlwind of emotion combined with cold determination.  I don't know how long I stood in the mess of death I had caused, but it was until Jezebel had come to me. 

I thought killing those orcs would be revenge enough.  But it was my fault that my parents had died.  My fault that they had left knowing only my bitter words.  I swore that I would never again let an orc live.  My oath was to protect all that I came across in need.  I was weary that evening, as I blundered in search of a stream.  The blood of the orcs and the horses and my own parents was caked to my skin and washed off slowly in the flowing waters.  I spent a night, or a week, or a month in that forest with nothing to eat, nowhere to sleep, nothing but self-loathing. 

Even now it seems as though that's all I really have.  It has been six years to the day since my birth as a fighter, since my death as an innocent.  I could never return to Gondor.  As far as I knew, my parents were never buried.  It's hard to say which years were the most difficult.  Perhaps it was the first, struggling to gain mastery of my weapons and fighting simply for my parents.  Maybe it was later when I began to need food and shelter as well as the bittersweet taste of revenge.  Or possibly it was when I was condemned to a life of solitude not only by myself but by the others. 

They knew who I was, these humans, these dwarves.  Oh, stories had been told of a roguish girl who killed just for pleasure.  I never stayed in any one town for more than two days.  Was the most difficult part longing for a kind voice?  Was it the dreams of my father kissing me through his beard and tickling my cheek?  Was it my mother's sweet smell as she sang me to sleep?  Could it even be my brother, as he pinned me down and tickled me until I cried for mercy?  What of my friends in Gondor?  Or Jezebel, my last companion, after she had been killed by those men of the town? 

I felt no love for anything.  I found no pleasure in life.  I lived by my memories and had become a hardened shell.   

Yet I knew that I still had a purpose to serve, be it bloody, be it death, I would fight to find it.


	2. Years

(A/N: Thanks Crazay, because I love you, I will work on the HP fics again and not this.  As to Madam or Monsieur Grrrr, I found your review disturbing in many ways.  One, this doesn't literally suck because it's not sucking anything such as a lollypop.  Two, your review was very crude and unnecessary, whether or not you like it is up to you, obviously, but you didn't need to be so rude.  I would have appreciated it had you given advice in a kinder manner, such as "you had spelling errors, you might want to double-check your work or get a beta-reader" not "everything about this sucks because I say so."  Takes another deep calming breath I give to you the reward of my third ridiculous flame.  That would be an anger management course.  To end on a happy note, Crazay has earned many brownie points for being awesome!  Je t'aime mademoiselle!)   

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**_"Out of the Black Years_**

**_Come the words_**

**_The Herald of Death_**

**_Listen- it speaks to_**

**_Those who were not born to die."_**

In the village of Resnayen was where I most frequently went for sleep.  I took money from the orcs I slaughtered.  On a few occasions, I pick-pocketed from those who had scorned me.  That money kept me fed and rested.  The looking-glass on the wall showed a girl with hard hazel eyes, a dark brown braid, two faint scars on her left cheek, and two dark rings underneath her cold eyes.  If I met myself, I wouldn't love myself, so I expected no other to do such a thing. 

Most of my scars were on my back or legs; two were on my stomach where an orc had sliced my belly.  How I survived that was a miracle of magic.  It seemed that my mind had picked up a magic trick or two while traveling and I found ways to heal myself, but I suspected that my blood ran dark with dirt.  I wasn't a healer at all, but I could fix my major wounds to keep surviving.  I knew some other magic, such as blind-sighting an enemy momentarily.  I was probably considered a dirty fighter for this, but the orcs, my primary enemies, were no better, so I felt no pang of conscientiousness on their accounts.

I say primary enemies because there were others.  Men.  I hated men and women alike.  Women sat there gossiping about me and encouraging me to leave with cruel looks.  Men thought that I was a threat to their masculinity and thought it some huge trial to get me "tamed."  Oh, I knew their dirty secrets.  They all cast stones at me from their filthy side of the world as though they had no faults of their own.  If they wanted to do that, fine, their choice.  I didn't need them.  I hated all of them. 

Resnayen was close to the city of Gondor.  It was hardly a day's ride from there, but it was still a smaller village.  Once, when I was fourteen, I remember quite vividly Seroe traveling with his army.  He was seventeen at the time.  He never saw me, but I heard him swearing revenge on the orcs who had killed his parents and sister.  He thought me dead, and that was perhaps for the better.  That was the same night, I remember, that I saw him get drunk with his companions.  Strangely enough, I came up as a conversation topic, not that he knew it was me they were discussing.  They said that there was a girl beating everyone to the orc meat.  There was some crude and nasty humor to accompany it, but I do remember seeing a frown on my brother's face and I could have sworn he considered me, but it wasn't long before his intoxicated mind moved onto other topics. 

Maybe the reason I always went to Resnayen was that I hoped deep down to see my brother again.  He was the last of my family.  He resembled both parents strongly, as did I, but I hated seeing myself.  I hadn't seen him since then, but I had a better chance of meeting him there than anywhere else.  I left my room and went into the bar for some ale and food.  The woman who served my food gave me a very funny look.  I took my food and ate alone staring blindly out the window.  I had to leave Resnayen the next day.  People started getting bolder around me if I stayed for too long, even though I did carry daggers and swords like extra appendages.

It wasn't enough that all orc-kind was my enemy.  No, even mankind had to be a threat.  Who did they think I was fighting?  All of Middle Earth?  The fools.  I looked in the window's reflection and noted a table quite near me full of men sipping on ale and muttering behind my back.  I sneered, knowing their conversation, almost word for word. 

_That's the fighter girl,_ one man would say softly, as though speaking of the walking dead.

_Yeah, she doesn't look that tough;_ one man trying to impress his buddies would lie.

_Are you jesting?  She's a frightening sight!  You ever seen a girl wearing men's clothes and fingering a blade in her boot? _ The only sane man of the bunch would say.

_Eh, well, I could take her,_ one moron would say boldly, swigging down more alcohol.

I shook my head and turned back to my bread, tearing it apart with my fingers, imagining it was my own soul, for that was how it felt now, as though it had been shredded by cruel words.  I gritted my teeth behind pursed lips and inwardly scolded my own weak thoughts.  Popping the remains of the bread into my mouth, I washed the meal down with some ale and left the bar.  As I walked by a table, the men fell deadly silent and watched me as one might watch an approaching orc.  Looking straight ahead but keeping my peripheral vision locked on them, I continued to the stairs. 

I awoke in the dead of night, alarmed by the old nightmares.  I had to leave right then, I sensed it.  The window was slightly ajar.  I pulled it up the rest of the way and slipped into the darkness.  I scaled the wall and finally, hung from the roof before dropping soundlessly onto the cobblestone pavement.  An owl hooted softly in the distance and a horse nickered from his post.  Apparently his master hadn't thought this mare worthy of a stable.  I was disgusted by his apathy. 

The horse looked as though she had seen her fair share of the whip.  She was a gray horse that was about fourteen hands high.  Her tail hung limp between her legs and her ears were down.  Cautiously, I approached the animal.  Her eyes shot open and her ears turned forward. 

"Hey, hey girl," I whispered soothingly.  I put a gentle hand on her flanks and felt her relax underneath my palm.  Slowly, I ran my hand along her side until I reached her reins, which were tied to the thick wooden post.  The mare seemed to recognize the seriousness of the moment and held stock-still until her reins were undone.  She pawed the ground nervously.  I looked around quickly to make sure no one was around and mounted the animal, taking her reins in hand.  Gently, I directed her towards the exit and we were off, out of this worthless town. 

We rode until the sun rose like a bloody ball of fire in the sky.  She raced across the ground and I felt almost as though Jezebel had returned from the dead.  The plains around me were devoid of humans or any other sentient creature.  This was freedom, feeling the wind on my face and my eyes watering from the breeze.  I decided to name her Saoirse, for that meant freedom.  (A/N: Saoirse is pronounced SEER-sha.)  Saoirse slowed to a trot and finally to a walk at about noon.  I directed her into the woods straight ahead to get some water for her.  Jumping off, I led her gently to a spring and she drank deeply.  In her saddlebags I found money, food and more water.  I couldn't believe what idiot had left this here.  When Saoirse had had her fill, I mounted again and rode through the forest.  My heart called for a place far north of where I was and it would take at least a week to get there on horseback.  By the end of the day, Saoirse and I had reached Enedwaith.  With Saoirse's old master's money, I bought a stable for the night for us to share and bought some food for the both of us.  In Enedwaith, nobody recognized me immediately, for I was known to travel on foot.  I went into a bar for the evening, leaving Saoirse to sleep in her stall.  I sat and listened for news of any nearby orcs. 

"Were you there when they came?"  A young man asked another anxiously.

"Yeah… they rode by on their infernal horses.  Dressed completely in black, never even slowin' to say hello or goodbye."  The other man rocked back and forth as though wishing to rid himself of some unsettled feeling. 

"You don't think Sauron might still be alive, do you?"  A woman a bit older than I asked nervously.

"Gods save us, I hope not."  The rocking man stopped rocking and stared in horror at the woman, as though only just coming to these evil thoughts.  "And with the roaming orcs lately… mayhap you be right!"

I listened more fervently, wondering where these orcs might be.

"I hear," a third man said quietly, "that the rogue girl is actually rounding the orcs up to send 'em back to Mordor, that's where they've all been going, you see.  She sort of the messenger."

"Then why does she kill 'em?"  The woman asked doubtfully.

"Orcs are vicious, so they'd need a vicious message," the third man said sagely.

I snorted at this.  I don't think they heard me, so I just walked back out without buying anything.  I went back to the stable.  Inside it smelled strongly of sweaty horses and hay.  In Saoirse's stall, I found her sleeping.  I took a pile of hay next to her and curled up, trying to sleep.  I must have fallen asleep at some point, for I dreamed of orcs and mysterious black riders.  The next day, Saoirse and I continued up north, passing quickly through Dunland, crossing the bridge just before evening and stopping at a nearby inn.  Again, we stayed in a stable.  I had never stayed at this inn, so none would recognize me.  In the bar, I was greeted with surprising warmth.  It was after I lowered my hood that everyone began to hush and stare at me in wonder. 

"Who be you, traveling woman?"  An old man wheezed. 

"No one of great renown."  I said.

"Where from come you?"  He asked. 

"Further south," I explained. 

"So you know of the black riders?"  A younger man asked eagerly.

"Nay, I was not there when they emerged," I found I was out of practice with words, but found everyone hanging onto every word I spoke.  When I offered nothing else, another question was asked of me as I took my seat in the unobtrusive corner.  It seemed no one was ready to let me be.

"Does that girl who fights orcs have anything to do with it?"

"No," I spoke more quickly than I had meant to.  "Stupid rumors, you see." 

"Oh," everyone became hushed and moved away from me, realizing I wasn't up to the task of storytelling.  They spoke of other things, not giving me another look, to my great relief.  After a quick supper, I left the bar and went to sleep with my horse again.  It was another day traveling by horseback that brought me face to face with my first orcs in weeks. 

I was in the field when Saoirse started acting bizarrely. 

"Orcs," I said confidently, dismounting quickly.  I didn't know how to tell Saoirse to hold still.  How does one speak to a horse?  I readied my weapons and waited for their foul stench to invade my nostrils.  No longer than ten seconds passed before I was on top of the demons with sword and dagger, fighting like a whirlwind of death.  There were seven of them and it was no easy battle.  The element of surprise was half my fight; otherwise I would have been knocked silly and killed.  I took four of them down quickly before they could react; the last three drew their weapons and fought me.  I blind-sighted them after one had hit my arm.  I shouted to confuse them further and shoved my sword into one's wretched stomach, causing him to fall down before I spilled his heart's contents.  The other two were absently crashing around.  I kicked them down, sliced one across the neck and stabbed him for good measure.  Black blood oozed out onto my weapon.  The last jump to its feet, apparently free of the blind-sighting.  I hated one-to-one combat; it was completely different from multiple-person fighting.  He blocked my first shots skillfully.  He shoved me back. 

"Orc-killer!  The stories are true!"  He growled. 

"Only the ones that explain me as a killer of orcs and nothing more."  I swung at him.  Again, he parried the blow.  I muttered a spell under my breath, hoping that it would work.  I had never succeeded with it before. 

Saoirse whinnied from her hiding place.  Not quite what I was trying to do, but the distraction was all I needed.  The orc looked away for long enough that I could get him.  His eyes became wide in his ugly face and they were marvelously blank.  He fell to the ground with a thud.  I spat on his lifeless form and wiped my sword on the grass.  Saoirse whinnied again.  I frowned.  The spell hadn't worked after all if she was whinnying on her own.  _Damn!_

I ran over to her to see what was bothering her.  She was pawing nervously at a snake at her hooves.  It was curled up and watching her with a fixed curiosity. 

"Come on, girl, let's get going."  I pulled on her reins and directed her back out to the open.  I checked her for bite wounds and was glad to see that she had none.  "It was just a snake," I scolded her.  Perhaps I was scolding myself.  That stupid spell never worked; it was supposed to get the earth to shift and rumble.  I thought that maybe Saoirse had been whinnying for fear of the shaking ground, but no.  I remounted and we rode off into the distance. 

It was three days after that when I finally arrived at Weathertop.  It was a beautiful old watchtower where I felt miraculously safe.  No one would be there to judge me.  The day before I had gotten there, I had sold Saoirse to an old man who loved horses.  He gave me enough money to survive on for a month.  I was kind of sad to see Saoirse go, but I couldn't take proper care of her.  Someone else would kill her if I kept her around. 

I climbed the crumbling stairs to the top of the tower.  Nature sang around me and the old souls of this building hummed in my blood.  They swore to keep me safe, I knew.  I found a cranny in which to make my bed for the night.  I put the blanket I had pilfered from the last hotel on the ground and curled up into a contented ball.  I watched the night sky until my eyes finally drooped to a close and my mind wandered to another world.                                                                   


	3. New Grounds

(A/N: Dude, I'm interested in getting a beta-reader, yo. For any of my stories. Did you like my craftily-placed ghetto-ese?)

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**_"What drove you leave _**_"__Manan__elye__etevanne_****

**_That which you loved?" _**_Nórie__i__melanelye__?"_

It was as though I never sincerely had a night's rest. It was more of a half-asleep act that I had been forced to master long ago. There had been nights when I was twelve and thirteen that other creatures of good intent had snuck up on me. I learned to be vigilant, even when my mind should have been at peace. There is no peace in a bitter mind, they say. They speak correctly.

I curled around my sword as a young child would a rag doll. It was my safety blanket. Having been with only weapons for so long, I had taken to naming them, though I sometimes felt silly doing so. My sword had been with me ever since I was twelve and I had named it Avarielle. A few daggers had once been named, but generally I lost those or replaced them. Only Avarielle had stayed with me for so long. It was by no means a beautiful sword. It wasn't even that sharp. It was still a little too long for me, but it was _my_ sword. A master swordsman would scoff at my weapon and laugh even further at my skills, but they both did what they needed to. I won't deny that I failed to take proper care of my weapons. I didn't have the time, money or energy to do that. Everyday could be my last as far as I knew. Sometimes I thought that I didn't really care whether I lived or not. It was mostly for my parents that I continued at all.

The night was mostly silent around me save for the sounds of hooting owls and chirping insects. A crow spoke in the distance, but I was swimming in and out of sleep. It seemed to my tired mind that my mother was speaking like a bird rather than a human. From my sleep, I heard twigs breaking below, but that could have been my dream. I heard nothing more.

"Is she alive, you think?" A loud whisper sounded.

I sat up quickly, ready to fight. My eyes darted quickly around. I saw a man and four Halflings. They all had swords and a similarly craven look. Only, the human seemed more tired, while the Hobbits looked frightened. I jumped to my feet and brought my sword to the ready.

"Who are you?" I hissed.

"Please, do not be alarmed," the man spoke in a soft voice, leaving his sword where it was. "We simply came to Weathertop for shelter this night."

I paced back, judging this man's integrity from what I could see. Looking around at the frightened faces of the Hobbits, I was convinced of his story. "All right, I can see that tale." I lowered my weapon cautiously to my side.

"Phew, I thought she was going to kill us, Merry." One of the Halflings whispered to the other.

"Shut up, Pip."

A fatter Hobbit watched me with a fixed distrust. The other watched my sword blankly, clearly thinking of other places than here.

"Since it seems we are to be sharing the same place of residence for the night," I spoke, "We should come to some sort of an agreement." I shifted uncomfortably. The man seemed to be trying to read my thoughts with his cool gaze. He was an unshaven and sweaty fellow with lank hair and a shiny forehead. But his eyes were an icy blue with an intelligent gleam to them. He dressed as a Ranger. I was a sort of Ranger myself, just not quite accepted.

"What agreement would you suggest?" The man spoke.

"Everyone stays away from my hole." I indicated the place where I had been sleeping.

"What brings a human girl to Weathertop with little protection save for a sword?" The man asked curiously.

"None of your concerns. I will not ask you of your mission and in turn you shall not ask me. Good night." I said firmly.

"I must know whether or not you are friend or foe," the man spoke after a moment of awkward silence. "My friends and I are on a dangerous quest."

"Is it not clear that I want nothing to do with any of you?" I inquired incredulously.

"'Ang on!" The chubbier Hobbit exclaimed. "I know 'oo you are! You're that fighter girl, aren't you? The one 'oo kills them orcs!" We all stared at him in amazement. "Bilbo a-told me about 'er."

"You're the orc-killer?" The man looked at her with a different kind of curiosity.

"Perhaps that is who I am," I spoke slowly. "But what difference would it make?"

"You are known for your thievery, murdering and apathy," he stared at her, cocking an eyebrow, "that could make a great deal of difference."

I burst into helpless laughter. "Even a Ranger would believe such rumors! Is there no decency left?" Finally, I silenced and shook my head at him. "Guard me all night if it suits you. You shall see that I don't trust either. I demand names."

"They call me Strider," the man bowed his head. I thought he was mocking me. "And these are my Hobbit companions, Merry, Pippin, Sam and Frodo."

"You travel with four Hobbits and scorn me for traveling on my own?" I shook my head in disgust. "Men are so arrogant to think that they are that much better at defending themselves."

"I am traveling to defend _them._" Strider spoke purposefully. "And they need their rest. You will scout out the area with me. They will take your hole for the night."

I couldn't believe his gall. Furthermore, I was slightly intimidated by the tone of his voice. Not for many years had I felt inferior to someone, but he had an aura about him that I couldn't describe. The only thing I could compare it to was the first time I met the son of Gondor's Attendant, Boromir. He and his brother Faramir both had made me feel silent when I was younger. But this man, Strider, had more power than they. I could not believe that he was a mere Ranger.

The Hobbits glanced warily at the other and stared back at me.

"All right, Mr. Strider. I will allow your Hobbits rest in my little hole." I bowed to them. "But know this: I am subordinate only to the laws of nature. You are just another human to me." I grabbed my pack from behind me and stomped out furiously. I had come to Weathertop to rest and escape human company, but it had found me relentless. The Hobbits scrambled into the safety of the gap and spread out their packs. Strider caught up to me in no time at all.

"What is your name?" It didn't sound like a question, more like a demand.

"Selïsyan." I responded automatically. The name struck my tongue in a funny way. It had been so long since I had heard it from anywhere but my dreams. "And your true name is certainly not Strider, is it? Just as mine isn't orc-killer."

"I have many names," he said distantly, looking into another hole in the wall.

"Birth name, then," I cleared up. "There's no one here. I checked earlier for intruders."

Strider blinked at me. "While you were sleeping, perhaps some passed you by."

I opened my mouth to spit out a retort.

"My name is Aragorn," he cut off my words. "I won't deny that we could use help. And Selïsyan," he nodded to me, "your enemies seem to be the same as my own."

"So you don't believe in the rumors?" I asked, glancing in between a row of stone statues to the side.

"Orc-killer I'll buy, but I doubt you would slaughter humans without good reason."

I frowned. "What gave you that impression?"

"If that were the case, the Rangers would have been set a task for your hide long ago," he smiled at me. "No, the people just prefer their rumors."

We hunted in silence. "Thank you," I said finally.

"You're welcome."

Then there was a scream.

"HELP!" Cried one of the Hobbits.

Without thinking, I ran in their direction, Aragorn at my side. It didn't take us long to find the Hobbits cornered by seven creatures clad entirely in black. Aragorn waved his torch at them. They screeched in a way that made my brain feel close to bleeding. The Hobbits were shaking, tiny swords at the ready. I let out a cry of fury and unleashed myself upon them. Unlike the orcs, however, they fought back with skill.

Aragorn did not fight them with steel, I could not help but notice. Rather, he chased them off with flame, setting their long, dark robes alight.

"Move!" He roared. I fell to the side, realizing that these creatures were somehow more dangerous than orcs. When the last of them had fallen from Weathertop, I saw the sweaty faces of the terrified Hobbits. There were only three of them.

"Where is Frodo?" Aragorn asked hastily. There was a moaning and fast breathing. Suddenly, the fourth appeared on the ground. I leapt back.

_What sort of magic is this? _I marveled inwardly.

"He's hurt!" The fat one cried, falling to Frodo's side.

"We must make haste to Rivendell," Aragorn commanded. "He has been poisoned." He looked at me darkly.

There are really no words for what happened next. There was a strong nexus formed between us, the group and I, that is. I became one of them, as we raced down from Weathertop. Aragorn bore Frodo in his arms and I held the hands of two of the others, dragging them along to encourage their hasty footsteps.

In the forest we ran, but finally stopped when Frodo cried out yet again. His face had taken on a deathly pallor. He was muttering strange words under his breath and his eyes rolled deliriously in their sockets.

"Stay with him while I find something to slow the poison," Aragorn commanded. "Sam, you are a gardener, are you not?"

They wandered off quickly together.

"Can't you do anything?" One of the two healthy Hobbits asked me.

"No," I said bluntly, fingertips shaking as I held the wound shut. Blood spilled up over my skin. The blood of an innocent. The Halflings stood by my side watching with wide blue eyes. Frodo was breathing spastically, unable to hold onto air for very long. I brought my free hand to his forehead and stroked it awkwardly. He was warm as flame.

Moments passed in fear.

"I will take Frodo safely to Rivendell," a musical voice reached my ears. I turned and saw a beautiful, golden-haired elf looking down upon us. He looked with concern upon the small Halfling. "And you shall find us there, Strider."

"Thanks be to you, Glorfindel." Aragorn bowed his head reverently.

The elf lifted Frodo gently into his arms and called to his white horse. They rode off quickly. The horse and elf rode with more speed than I had thought possible in the mortal realms. The five of us watched them disappear into the night. The smallest Hobbit grabbed onto my hand and held it. I frowned down at him, but he didn't notice.

"Will 'e be okay?" The fat Hobbit Sam asked.

"May the gods be with him this night," Aragorn closed his eyes.


End file.
